Firsts
by Pariaritzia
Summary: A series of firsts for Victor and Victoria. Victoria's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**I should be working on my other story, or, perhaps, my six college applications and the accompanying (untouched) five hundred and seventy-two essays (or however many it is)…but I am a proud citizen of the Procrastination Nation…and I re-watched the clips for According to Plan and Victor's Piano Solo…and Victor and Victoria are too adorable to ignore.**

**A series of firsts for Victor and Victoria. Victoria's POV.**

**Bonne lecture.**

When her mother told her she would be married by the end of the month, Victoria's initial thought was that, for the first time in living memory, Maudeline was making a poor attempt at a joke.

The thought that followed was more sensible—that it was truly more likely that Lady Everglot would betroth her daughter to unknown man without her consent than dare say anything remotely amusing.

Maudeline did not even wait for her daughter's reaction to this news; upon uttering the words, "Your father and I plan to have you wed by month's end to"—a barely perceptible shudder—"a member of the _nouveau riche_," she had turned on her heel and glided away, likely to conjure up a way to acquire a wedding dress and accompanying trousseau when one's lands out-valued one's specie.

Victoria watched the door to her room shut of its own accord; she turned in her seat at her vanity to assess her reflection. Her entire life—eighteen years and a month, to be precise—she never could quite trouble herself about her appearance. There was no one, after all, whom she wished to impress. She did not know any young men; she had no friends and little acquaintance; and Hildegarde rarely remarked upon her natural beauty (or lack thereof). Her parents, she knew, thought her demeanour an utter disgrace—but if Victoria was perfectly honest with herself, she did not care overmuch about the elder Everglots' opinions.

Yet within a month there would be someone to please, and it would behoove her to determine now the extent—or want—of her personal charms. There was no one of whom she could ask an opinion; there must, therefore, form her own impression.

Immediately her eyes fell to their own image. Too large, she decided critically. Too large and too—pensive. How often had her mother scolded her for her inquisitiveness, as a child? _Curiosity is unseemly in a young lady of the beau monde, Victoria. Women ought to be seen and not heard._

Victoria suppressed a smile. Because Lady Everglot was such a paragon of reserve herself, yes?

On to her nose, then. Small, straight, generally unremarkable. Well, unremarkable would have to do.

Her lips. Not quite the rosebud shape so desired by young ladies of fashion, but they were sufficient.

Her complexion. Pale, terribly pale. She pinched her cheeks, to no avail. She sighed and moved onward.

Her form. Her mother always ordered Hildegarde to tighten Victoria's corset until she could hardly speak without gasping; thankfully Hildegarde did not invariably follow this instructions to the letter and Victoria could exert herself more than a dozen steps without nearly fainting. But even _sans_ corset, she was rather thin in the waist; and despite Maudeline's wishes, despite dubious concoctions and bespoke garments, Victoria's hips and breasts would never appear quite as full as fashion dictated.

Overall, a dismal picture. Not ugly—by no means ugly—but not pretty, either. Just—plain.

Victoria sighed again. She disliked to disappoint anyone, much less the man with whom she would spend the remainder of her life, but plain would have to do. After all, it was not as if he had any say in the matter.

Come to think of it, neither did she.

VVVV

It did not occur to her until the day of the rehearsal that she had not given a thought to what he would be like.

For a fortnight she had lingered over her own unsatisfactory qualities, both physical and social—she was too quiet, she had no knowledge of the outside world, she liked books too much, she was far too candid—and had, as a result, neglected to dwell on her betrothed's possible characteristics.

What if he resembled her father? As much as it pained her to think so negatively of her own family, she did not think she could love a man like her father. She hoped Victor van Dort would be kind. She did not care for handsome looks or noble mien—no, she just wanted kindness. Someone who would listen to her ramble about books and would not frown if she asked a question.

She confided in Hildegarde, hoping the older woman could ease her fears; unfortunately her parents overheard, and succeeded only in depressing her further.

Oh well, she thought, as they continued down the hall. She would simply have to make the best of it. Plenty of marriages were without love. Were not her parents a prime example of one? Besides, it was not as if she had a choice. What was the point of worrying?

She retained this attitude for all of ten minutes, then returned to her former anxiety, this time quietly.

VVVV

She was at her vanity, patting down a few stray curls, when she heard it.

The pianoforte.

For a moment she froze, certain she was imagining the sound. In fact, she was not entirely confident that it _was_ the instrument she was hearing and not something else, something more commonplace. She had never heard the piano played before; her mother disapproved of music and her father had no patience for any sound softer than a hunting rifle.

But this—this was more than soft. This was sweetness and melancholy and yearning, gentleness and hope and resignation, all tangled together and wrapped in feelings ineffable. She had never heard such a pure sound. Feelings were _non grata_ in the Everglot mansion; but to whomever was playing this, feelings must be the essence of the soul.

An inkling of the pianist's identity sent her out into the hall, down the staircase, right by his shoulder. She meant to remain as silent as possible—if he played for ever she would be perfectly content—but he sensed her presence and jolted, knocking over the bench and upsetting the vase.

He babbled as he caught the vase and regained some semblance of composure; an apology, an awkward clearing of his throat, and a quiet "excuse me" as he righted the bench. She was vaguely aware of speaking herself—"you play beautifully" is perhaps what she said, though she could not be quite sure, as she was occupied with inspecting him.

This was Victor van Dort. Her betrothed. The man whom she had hoped would not mind her plain appearance and poor social skills; the man whom she had hoped would be kind, if not handsome or noble.

He was very tall and so thin as to make his height more pronounced. His eyes were as large as hers; he was even paler than she was; his mouth was too thin; and he had jet-black hair, a few unruly curls of which fell over his forehead. Most surprising of all, he was very near her age—he could not possibly be more than nineteen or twenty.

_Why, he's just as young and uncertain as I am_, she thought, relieved.

For a moment they regarded each other—she supposed he was taking stock of her as she was of him—and then her mother burst in and fairly had a fit at the breach of impropriety. As she ushered them towards the room in which the rehearsal would take place, Victoria glanced once more at her intended; and decided that, as unknown to her as the rest of his character was, to spend her life with a man who played the pianoforte with such passion could not possible be an undesirable circumstance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: I forgot to mention this last time, but these are not in order. So even though this is a post-marriage piece, the next might deal with pre-marriage events. This one, however, **_**will**_** be followed by post-marriage events, as it is part one of two (you'll understand once you read it).**

**Other note: There are references to the love of man and wife in this, though only in speech and nothing is described. I apologise if I offend anybody.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Corpse Bride; nor, in fact, do I know anything about the English countryside (so sorry to anyone who is knowledgeable of that if I have botched the description entirely).**

**Bonne lecture.**

The three weeks following their wedding were spent in the Everglots' country home. From there the newlywed van Dorts would depart for their permanent home in the city; but for three weeks, for twenty-one days, for five hundred and four hours, they would reside in the country, alone save a butler, cook, maid, and coachman, all of whom, thanks to years of work under Maudeline's tyrannical thumb, would remain as invisible and akin to furniture as they possibly could.

Quite frankly, the prospect terrified and elated Victoria in equal measure. She loved Victor—that was truer than anything—and she was fairly certain that he loved her; not to mention that their personalities meshed amiably; but she had never really spoken to a young man before, much less spent such a length of time in the company of one. What would they discuss? How would she know if he was displeased with something? And—she must be allowed some small amount of vanity—what if she did or said something embarrassing? What if she sneezed or laughed or—heaven forbid—hiccoughed, to use Lady Everglot's phrase, "like a common drunk"?

Victoria mulled this over as the carriage trundled them along the rutted roads. Victor had spent the half hour so far alternately gazing out the window and staring at the knees of his spider-silk suit; neither had spoken a word since the ceremony, though the silence seemed contented enough.

At length he spoke, about the rain and general gloom—she responded with something banal—he fell silent, blushing irrationally—she decided that staring at her hands clasped in her lap would make an excellent pastime.

His blush recalled to her a conversation—a lecture, rather—that her mother had given her the morning she was to wed Lord Barkis.

"There is something," Maudeline had said, her lips slightly curled in distaste, "to which every married woman must…yield…upon the night of her wedding, and for many nights afterward, if her husband so wishes. Lord Barkis seems rather…energetic…and I feel it is my duty, daughter, to warn you that already what will be expected of you is unpleasant, and to have to submit to it constantly will be quite a trial. But I assure you, there are small ways for you to endure, or even avoid, such grim experiences—closing one's eyes and thinking of more pleasant activities can help, for example. And then—particularly with your husband—there is a strong likelihood that this duty of yours will be conferred elsewhere shortly after you produce an heir."

A pause, during which Victoria sorely wished young ladies were permitted biology textbooks and wondered what could be so very horrible that it would induce her mother to say more to her in one sitting than she had in her entire life put together.

"For that is the point of it," said Lady Everglot a moment later. "To produce children, that is." Another pause. "That is all."

"Is there not something more you may tell me," Victoria asked as her mother made to leave the room, "so that I might fulfill my duties more precisely?"

"There is nothing for you to do," Maudeline spat, "but lie there and let your husband taken unspeakable liberties. That is _all_, child. Curiosity is unseemly in a young lady of the _beau monde_."

With that she had swept away. A fortnight later, the day before Victoria's marriage to Victor, Maudeline had returned and broached the subject once more.

"You needn't worry over frequency with this one," she had said, rather abruptly. "I shan't be surprised if it is many years before you bear a child."

Almost immediately she had departed, leaving Victoria to wonder what on earth her mother had meant by that.

The carriage rolled over the umpteenth pothole; she took advantage of the jolt to peek at Victor. He was markedly different from Lord Barkis, of course, but: energetic? Frequency? Unspeakable liberties? Her mother might as well have been speaking Greek for all the good her words did for Victoria.

The remainder of the journey passed in their usual companionable silence. Victoria amused herself with looking out of the window and watching the red farmhouses and the livestock roaming about; in the field to the left a little girl in a checkered frock ran around chasing a puppy; a half-hour later, on the right, a tall man stood beside a cow, leaning back and squinting up at the cloudy sky with one hand holding steady his broad-brimmed hat. Such commonplace sights were novel to Victoria, who had only the faintest memories of her family's country home (_"The countryside is not the place for a young lady of the beau monde, Victoria!"_) and she found herself utterly delighted by everything she saw, even the small, grubby boy determinedly tying his unsuspecting older sister's long plait to a fencepost.

At long last the van Dorts arrived at the manor. Even in sunlight the large, rectangular, spartan structure would appear foreboding, but on this grey day it looked positively grim. If the Everglots had resided here, Victoria thought with some small spark of humour, when she had told her family about Emily, perhaps they would have believed her. Surely this place could house the dead.

Victor quitted the carriage first, turning to help Victoria descend; to her mild surprise and pleasure, the first words he spoke in nearly four hours were:

"Goodness, you're much lighter to assist than Mother!"

The instant the phrase left his lips he blushed brightly and hurried to help the coachman with the trunks. Victoria, however, was glad of his interjection. Not only was she happy to know he was comfortable enough with her to make such comments; it was also gratifying to learn that, regardless of her mother's criticism, _he_ thought her thin. Thinner than his mother, anyway.

After a flurry of activity (entering, greeting the servants, assuring the aforementioned servants of the van Dorts's _very_ different attitudes from that of the Everglots, unpacking, refreshing, eating dinner), most of which occurred in silence or near-silence, Victoria found herself in the drawing room, seated on a sofa beside her husband, who immediately drew up his knees to wrap his arms around them, then reddened and let his legs drop, instead folding his hands awkwardly in his lap.

"Well," he began, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "I—What would you like to do?"

It struck her, right then, how very little she knew about him. They had endured much together, but all she knew about him was that he was terribly shy, remarkably sweet, and played the piano like an angel.

"Talk, I suppose," she replied, without really thinking. "I hardly know you. What sort of things do you like?"

"Me?"

"Who else would I be asking?"

"Oh!" He sounded embarrassed. "I—I apologise. Very few people have asked me that question."

How sad! But her life was much the same; her opinion did not count.

With _him_ it would count. She felt quite sure of that.

"I like to draw," he said finally. "I draw excessively, actually." He peeked at her shyly, tilting his head a bit so the curls across his forehead drooped. "Would you like to see some of my pictures? My sketchbook is upstairs."

She agreed, and he went to fetch them. Upon return she was treated to some of the most beautiful drawings she had ever seen; she told him so, and he flushed with pleasure.

"Thank you," he said, sincerely. "Mother and Father are not quite so—well, effusive, I suppose. But thank you." He closed the book. "What do _you_ do?"

Suddenly she felt inadequate. Here was this sketcher, this artist, this demi-Da Vinci, and she was…nothing.

"I am afraid I am rather untalented," she confessed, with a short, self-deprecating laugh.

"Can you play?"

"No, not at all; nor draw; nor dance, for that matter."

Victor frowned, puzzled. "I thought all young ladies learnt to dance."

"Mother never approved of it. She finds it frivolous." Victoria gave that same truncated laugh once more, then offered, "I can embroider, though I am mediocre on a good day." She bit her lip. "I—I read, usually, and sometimes—sometimes I write stories, though only for my own amusement. That is all, really."

"What did you read last?"

"Oh…" Colour rushed to her cheeks. "It is not particularly ladylike, I think, and Mother does not know…but I have been reading much of the _Strand_ recently, and I am quite drawn to Dr. Doyle's stories."

"Ah, yes—Father subscribes to the _Strand_—I read _A Study in Scarlet_, you know."

"Did you really? Isn't it wonderfully intriguing? And it isn't dull and full of bromides like most of the other detective novels nowadays—I am so tired of gothic novels and yellow-backs!"

For every pair of people there is a thread of conversation, if they can locate it; the new van Dorts had discovered this thread; and, happily, learnt that it ran for a very, very long time indeed.

VVVV

For some inscrutable reason, Victor turned quite pale when, an hour later, Victoria suggested they might retire.

"It has been a rather long day," she said, almost apologetically. "If you would rather not, then I suppose…or actually, I can go now, if you do not mind, and you may stay awake as long as you like."

"No, no, you are right, it has been a long day," he said hurriedly, still horribly white. "Upstairs we go, then…"

Their rooms were side by side, in the hall to the left of the wide staircase; Victoria made to enter the room on the right when she noticed Victor had not moved from his spot four feet from the doors.

"Victor? Is everything all right?"

He started, colour flooding his face. The contrast alarmed her slightly; compared to his former pallor the shade was startlingly vivid.

"Yes!" he cried, far too quickly. "Yes, I—I simply was thinking, that's all. My room is the left one, I think?"

"Yes, the left."

"All right," he said, hurrying into said room. "Good night."

She blinked at his strange behaviour, took it for weariness, then went into her own room to undress for bed.

VVVV

After having helped Victoria out of her dress and made a roaring fire, Anne, the maid, left for the night. Victoria herself went to the window first, peering out into the darkness to discern storm clouds.

"Wonderful," she sighed, letting the curtain fall back into place before turning to her bed. "My first thunderstorm without Hildegarde."

The former nursemaid had always been Victoria's comfort during storms; the younger woman despised the tempests, which always put her in mind of depressing subjects. After the corpse bride and Barkis debacle, the effect on her would only worsen.

_Oh well,_ she thought, resigned, as she slipped into bed. _I might as well grow used to it. After all, I'll not ever live with Hildegarde again, shall I? And Victor won't take kindly to being disturbed, not over something as silly as a storm_.

With that, she slid down under the covers, shut her eyes, and—

Did not sleep one wink, because the moment her lashes touched her cheeks a streak of lightning flashed behind her eyelids, followed (terrifyingly closely, one might add) by the loudest clap of thunder Victoria had ever heard.

She tried. She really, truly tried. She counted sheep, practiced her times tables, thought of peaceful landscapes. She did toe exercises, breathed deeply, and even tried muffling her ears with her pillows.

Nothing worked. Flash after flash of lightning illuminated her room, casting ominous shadows and distorting the mundane (armoire, lamp, chair) into the petrifying (intruder, claw, witch). At long last she could no longer bear it, and sat up, throwing back the sheets and reaching for the robe beside her bed.

Another bolt of lightning lit; the mirror on the wall opposite showed a young woman's face, thin and white and terrified, one pale arm stretched to the side. For a moment her heart stopped—she did not know what she saw—and then she recognized herself and could have laughed at her idiocy.

What was she doing, sitting here and frightened like a little girl? Furthermore, what was she _about_ to do, troubling Victor? Just because she could not sleep did not mean he should be awake as well!

Thunder quickly followed the aforementioned lightning; much to Victoria's chagrin an involuntary squeak emitted from her lips.

_Oh, for heaven's sake!_ she thought angrily, as bright light filled the room once more._ Chin up, Victoria, you're a married woman now! A married woman doesn't_—

BOOM!

—_lie in her bed alone when she could don her robe and hurry towards her husband's door like a fool._

It took her four tries before her fist actually hit the door; she winced as the _rap_ sounded, instantly regretting it. She really ought not to bother him. He needed his sleep; it was not his fault that she could not sleep herself.

Perhaps her knock had not woken him. Perhaps she could hurry back into bed—

The door creaked open. Victor stood there, in an awful set of violet-striped pajamas, a blue robe, and hair that looked like it had fought a war with the pillow and lost.

"Victoria!" he said, surprised. "Is everything all right?"

Why had he awoken so quickly? Why wasn't he frowning? Who in their right mind smiled when woken at one in the morning?

"I—yes, but—" She bit her lip. "If it would not disturb you terribly much, would it be all right for me to stay in there with you?"

He just blinked.

"That is—" She flushed—what was she _doing_, asking to enter a man's room at night? "I am not very—fond—of thunderstorms, and I would rather not be alone during one."

There, she had said it; and now all that was left was for him to either laugh derisively and shut the door in her face, or smile again and let her inside.

And, of course, because he was Victor, he smiled again and let her inside.

**Sorry about the Holmes reference. I couldn't resist.**

**Please review! Merci to all those who have reviewed already!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: This also has references to the love of man and wife. I apologise in advance if I cause any offence.**

**Also, there are parts in this where the dialogue might seem stiff or awkward or random. I want it to be like that; imagine, for a moment, that you are turned eighteen and married to someone whose entire life is a mystery to you, someone whose birthday you do not even know, and you must figure out his likes, his dislikes, his habits, manners, way of living, speaking, eating, etc., or he might grow displeased with you and your family would be ruined.**

**Not to be snarky or anything (I really do appreciate the criticism, and thank you for that!), but…I'd be stiff and awkward, too.**

**Also: This is a REALLY long chapter, but I hope it is worth it. **

**Bonne lecture.**

"I really am sorry to trouble you," she said apologetically.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," he said cheerfully, beckoning for her to come sit on the divan by the fire. "I used to be afraid of thunderstorms, too, you know." He grinned sheepishly. "In fact, I'm rather glad you knocked. I wasn't looking forward to weathering the storm myself, either. This place is rather gloomy for a country home."

"I quite agree." She turned to the fire crackling merrily in the grate. The flames warmed her physically, but with Victor beside her, something inside of her seemed to thaw as well. "I take it you were already awake, then?"

He nodded. "I never went to sleep, actually."

For a brief moment there was silence, punctuated only by a single clap of thunder, but the silence was entirely unlike the one they had shared in the carriage; this silence was loud and tense and uncomfortable, despite the apparent ease of their recent conversation.

Of course, Victoria had never been in a man's room before. Perhaps that had something to do with her discomfort?

She almost laughed. Certainly it had to do with her discomfort! How often had she even _seen_ a man, much less sat in a man's room in the middle of the night, while wearing only her nightgown and robe? For heaven's sake, she had not even stopped to put up her hair!

The moment the latter thought occurred to Victoria, she reached to do just that; Victor's eyes followed her movement curiously.

"What are you doing?"

"My—my hair," she stammered, feeling oddly vulnerable. "I—I don't like for it to be loose when I am in another's company."

"Oh." He sounded slightly disappointed as he watched her pull it into a bun. "I quite like it, you know. It's very pretty."

Victoria felt her cheeks heat. "Thank you. That is very kind of you to say so."

He nodded again, though for no evident reason, then took to looking into the fireplace. Thunder clapped again, without warning—the curtains in Victor's room were drawn and heavy enough to mask any lightning—but Victoria no longer felt afraid. She began to trace her toe along the pattern of the hearthrug.

"Victoria?"

She looked up. "Yes?"

He looked terribly pale once more, just as he had appeared right before they had retired. "Victoria, I…do you…did your mother say anything, before we left after the wedding?"

Victoria's brow crinkled. Her mother had given her many dire, eleventh-hour warnings about behaving like a proper young lady and remembering to keep her back straight when she sat at dinner, but nothing of real value.

"No, nothing of importance. Why?"

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "I thought…I was under the impression…" He trailed off, a blush infusing his cheeks with the same alarming rapidity as before. "My father told me you would know…that your mother would tell you something."

"What is this, 'something'?" Victoria asked, bewildered.

"Perhaps it was different for Mother…" said Victor to himself thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose that must be it…" He reddened again. "You see, there is something that we are…that we are supposed to do. Now that we're married, I mean."

"Do? Oh!" Suddenly Maudeline's lecture returned to Victoria. "I…actually, yes, Mother did say something about after the wedding."

Victor swallowed and watched her carefully. "And did she…did she say anything in particular?"

"No, only that…" Victoria frowned. "Only that I would not much like it." She heard Victor sigh and looked up at him apologetically. "I am sorry. Is there something more I _ought_ to know?"

"No, but if you did it would certainly make my part easier." He cleared his throat a second time. "I—I am not quite sure of—of how to go about it without—without making you hate me."

Victoria opened her mouth to say, with perfect confidence, that she would never hate him—and then Maudeline's grim statement flew into her mind.

_ …it is my duty, daughter, to warn you that what will be expected of you is unpleasant…There is nothing for you to do but lie there and let your husband take unspeakable liberties._

She gulped. Maybe her mother was right, for once.

"Must you—must _we_—do…whatever it is?" Victoria asked hesitantly. "It is not as if anyone would know, really…"

_For that is the point of it. To produce children, that is._

So if she never had a child, people would know…but if she _did_ have a child, thought Victoria with her usual unseemly curiosity, wouldn't that also mean that everyone would know that Victor had done something strange and unpleasant to her, had taken these "unspeakable liberties"? Why was that acceptable? Society was so _odd_ sometimes!

"Never mind," said Victoria a few seconds later, "that would not work, either."

He looked at her helplessly. "I truly think you will despise me."

She put a hand to her head. "Perhaps…we could postpone? Surely it is not urgent…or is it?" she asked, referring to him tentatively.

"No, I think we could delay," he replied, relieved. "Thank you, Victoria."

"You are welcome," she answered, though she was still at a loss as to the true subject of the conversation. She rose. "And Victor, I do believe the storm has stopped."

He blinked. "Really? I haven't heard anything."

She hid a smile. "Yes…that's why I think it has ended."

"Ah!" He blushed brightly. "Of course. Well…good night, then."

"Good night," she said, and went back to her room, where, at last, she fell asleep.

VVVV

A fortnight passed before either of the new van Dorts spoke to anyone besides the servants and each other. This suited Victor and Victoria, who found a common dislike of company and preferred to share quiet evenings in the parlor or (much to the cook's astonishment and delight) the kitchen, where they would (much to that same cook's chagrin and dismay) try their hand at cooking or baking.

It was on one such culinary evening, just as Victor had rolled up his shirtsleeves and begun to knead an inordinate amount of biscuit dough, that Anne, the maid, entered the kitchen. After muffling a giggle at the sight of the master elbow-deep in dough and of the mistress covered head to toe in flour, and of Hannah, the cook, whose long-suffering dismay was palpable in her sighs and shakes of her head; after succeeding in her attempts to not laugh at all this, Anne went over to Victoria and held out a letter.

"From Lady Everglot, ma'am," she said, bending into a half-curtsey. "Harry says it's important."

Harry, who was Anne's husband and served as coachman, never saw the importance of anything (to illustrate, let it be known that he and Anne were engaged four years before they married); if Harry said something was important, normal people would think it positively crucial.

Unless…

Victoria took the letter with some foreboding. "Did Mother tell him to say that?" she asked shrewdly.

Victor let out a short laugh; Anne grinned; and even Hannah chuckled.

"Yes, ma'am, as a matter of fact she did."

"No surprises there," Victoria said under her breath, breaking open the note. "Well, Anne, you can go if you need to be elsewhere."

Anna curtseyed again and left. To Hannah's relief, Victor abandoned the dough and followed Victoria to the parlour, where she aloud from Maudeline's letter.

" _'To Mr. and Mrs. van Dort—'_"

"Mr. and Mrs. van Dort!" Victor exclaimed. "Why would she call us that?"

"Because that's who we are," Victoria responded, amused at his reaction. "Are you have you forgotten our names?"

"No, but—" He blushed, though she knew he was pleased by her joke. During their two weeks in the country, Victoria had discovered a hitherto hidden sense of humour, and delighted in putting it to good use with her equally good-humoured husband. "But why wouldn't she just call you by your name?"

"My mother would never dare to suggest to have something so common as _relations_," said Victoria loftily. "Most especially a grown daughter. It's rather lowering for a woman to admit she has a daughter old enough to be married."

This nugget of wisdom struck Victor with such force that he did not speak until Victoria had finished reading the letter, which followed thus:

_To Mr. and Mrs. van Dort,_

_ My utmost regards to you both during your holiday. Finis and I hope you fare well and would like to tell you that we are in good health._

_ I have been informed by an acquaintance that a ball is to take place next week in the area in which you currently reside. Through this same acquaintance I have garnered invitations for the both of you (which will arrive forthwith, I am confident) and implore you to accept. As this ball is hosted by the close friend of the second cousin of the niece of the son of the queen, I would like to add that it would benefit you both to have only the very best attire. As your father, Mr. van Dort, has money enough to spare, this should present no trouble._

_ Again, my regards to you both. I am, yours, etc.,_

_ Lady Maudeline Everglot_

When she reached the end Victoria looked up to find Victor shaking with silent laughter.

"What on earth is so funny?" she demanded, though her own lips quivered suspiciously.

"N—nothing!" he managed to say, between bursts of laughter. "Only—only—" He took in a great heaving breath and said, in as pompous a tone as he could, " '_The close friend of the second cousin of the niece of the…_whatever it was…the sister or the dog or the maid or something…"

He dissolved into laughter again. Victoria gave up her pretense and joined him; and for one long, delicious minute, the two laughed fit to burst over a line that (when one really thought about it) was not particularly funny at all.

It took a while to recover (it did not help that every time one would begin to hiccup back to normality, the other would say, "The second cousin of the niece of the sister of the dog of the queen of England!"); but recover they did, and at length they returned to the letter.

"You know, this sounds more like something _my_ mother would do," said Victor after a moment's scrutiny.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, Mother's always wanted me to be in high society," Victor explained, "and showing us off is exactly what she would want."

"Do you think your mother might be the acquaintance mentioned?"

"Maybe, though I can't imagine why your mother would listen to anything she says."  
"She would if it involved the second cousin of the queen…or whatever it is," Victoria said, rereading the line with some exasperation. "Shall we go, though?"

"I suppose we must, unless you would rather our mothers collectively murder us. Though I can tell you, Victoria, the land of the dead is quite a nice place."

Victoria did not smile. She did not know the entire story of Victor and his corpse bride. Part of her wanted to ask him, but another part of her thought she ought to leave it alone. It did not have anything to do with her, after all.

But—and she knew it was silly to think this, yet she could not help it—Emily had been awfully, _awfully_ pretty, and from the way she protected Victor from Barkis, she must have liked him quite a lot. Had Victor returned that feeling at all? Victoria would not begrudge him that affection, but—

"…ought to go."

Victoria blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I think we ought to go," Victor repeated. "How bad could it be?"

Victoria gave him a sideways glance. "Victor, have you ever actually been to a ball?"

"Ah…no, I'm afraid not. Mother will be ecstatic when she hears of this."

"Victor." She gave a short laugh. "You have no idea how horrible these parties are. We wouldn't even be allowed to dance together!"

He started. "What do you mean?"

"It's not proper," Victoria explained. "We could, I suppose, once or twice, but people would think it odd." She paused. "You wouldn't want to dance with me, anyway. I don't know how."

"Yes, you had mentioned that." He frowned. "What would you do, then, at balls? Just sit in the corner?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Oh. Well, you can do that this time, too, only I'll sit with you and we can talk like we would if we had stayed at home!"

Victoria just sighed.

VVVV

The ball took place five days after Maudeline's letter arrived. The day of the party the van Dorts dressed in their finest (Victoria found, to her irrational excitement, that Victor owned a crimson cravat, and that it made him look rather handsome) and trundled off to their host's country residence four miles away.

The host was Lord Richard Pevear and his wife, Lady Larissa. To the van Dorts' relief, the other guests were few: Lords Richmond and Lowell and their wives, Lady Bianca, whose husband was away on business and could not attend, and the elderly Lady Vivian.

"We planned on having more and making it a real ball," said Lady Larissa with a gloomy sigh at dinner, "but so many people were away or had prior engagements…I don't think there's enough for dancing, Richard," she called down the table.

"Perfectly all right, darling," he replied (indeed, he was rather occupied with a portion of lamb and seemed thoroughly pleased with his current lot). "We can have a round of cards or simply talk."

After dinner the men went to another room to smoke (Victor made a face at Victoria before following Lord Lowell out; Victoria, suppressing a giggle, followed Lady Vivian into the room where the women would remain until the men had finished).

"Well, ladies!" Lady Larissa gestured for the women to take seats; Victoria helped Lady Vivian into an armchair before seating herself on the sofa beside Lady Bianca, whom she thought the friendliest of the women. Ladies Richmond and Lowell sniffed when they heard _van Dort_ after the words _Mister and Missus_ in lieu of an actual title; Lady Vivian wrinkled her nose too often; and Lady Larissa always acted as if some great tragedy had just befallen her.

But Lady Bianca was well-spoken and cheerful and acted perfectly normal. She also had the advantage of being, at twenty-two, the closest to Victoria's age. For several minutes the older woman asked Victoria about how she liked the country ("oh, very much—I would love to stay here forever!") and married life ("Victor is very kind to me, and we suit each other quite well") before asking a rather startling question.

"And…" Lady Bianca's eyes sparkled and she leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. "I suppose, with a husband with such a gentle disposition, you were surprised? Pleasantly surprised, I would wager, judging from how genuinely you appear to like him?"

Immediately Victoria felt as if Lady Bianca had asked something secretive, something arcane. Her liking for the woman decreased dramatically.

"I'm sorry?"

Lady Bianca smiled. "Ah, you've been raised with the usual suppression, I see! I was the same myself, until my husband made me realise how ridiculous my restraint was. Of course, I was never particularly proper to begin with," she added thoughtfully a moment later, "but I was just as shy and uncertain as any newlywed girl. Henry straightened that out rather quickly, though," she finished, her eyes sparkling again.

Victoria could say nothing. She had a horrible feeling this had something to do with the mysterious event that ought to have taken place the night of her wedding, but she could not think of what to say. She felt terribly idiotic; she wished Lady Bianca would stop talking.

"Well, Victoria, I'll leave you alone about it for now," said the older woman at last, still smiling that knowing smile, "but mark my words, your husband will get you out of that shell eventually. And you shouldn't worry about him thinking you wanton, my dear. I'd wager your husband would love you just the same—if not more."

_Wanton_? Victoria's eyes widened slightly. Lady Bianca took this as a reaction to her advice, not the specific word, and simply patted the younger girl's hand before asking Lady Vivian about her grandson.

Wanton! So the mysterious event—it had to do with what _those sort of women_ did for a living! How could that be right? How could that—

The library. Oh, would that this evening be over soon, so Victoria could ravage the Everglots' library! Surely her parents had overlooked _one_ book!

VVVV

The moment the van Dorts entered their home, Victoria made an excuse and headed immediately for the library.

She spent an hour in there, scouring the titles without any luck at all, before succumbing to the call of Morpheus and going up to bed.

The next morning, however, she woke up early and went directly to the library to continue her search. Two hours passed and she had quite given up all hope when—

In the bookshelf in the very back corner, half-hidden by a dusty tome about Russian literature, she found it.

Victoria never learned why that particular volume was in her parents' library, though she often wondered why; perhaps, some twenty years before, her mother had made a similar frantic search and wondered the same about Finis's parents; whatever the reason, Victoria appreciated the book's existence, for she spent the next hour on the floor of the library, reading its contents with wide eyes.

It sounded…unreal. Impossible. Fanciful. _Frightening_.

She tried to imagine herself and Victor—and immediately turned as red as the cravat he had worn the previous evening.

How could this be real?

Well, she was here. Obviously it was real—though the idea of Maudeline and Finis—Victoria shuddered. _Not_ a pleasant thought. No wonder her mother had troubled herself to say more to her in one sitting than she ever had in her entire life put together.

"Victoria?"

Victoria jumped and slammed the book shut, hurriedly covering the title with her clasped hands as Victor rounded the corner.

"Oh! There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you since you disappeared after breakfast."

"Sorry," she said, a little breathlessly. "Um—I was just—I was just reading."

"Yes, I can see that," he said, smiling. "What book is it?"

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh _no_.

"Er—nothing very interesting. It would probably bore you."

"It must be somewhat intriguing for you to be lodged back here engrossed in it," he pointed out.

"Oh! Well—it's just—history. Royal history. Monarchs and such."

He said nothing, and for a heart-stopping moment Victoria thought he had caught sight of the title; but then he shrugged.

"You're right, it probably would bore me. I suppose I'll leave you to it, then."

"Yes, of course…"

He left and she let out a long breath before rising to replace the book, where it would likely stay until the next new wife in the Everglot manor came in pursuit of it.

VVVV

They had never even kissed.

When Victoria awoke the day after her discovery, this thought, curiously enough, was the first to enter her head.

Nearly three weeks had passed, yet she and Victor had not even held hands, much less kissed or…

She blushed.

After Maudeline's words and the book's explanation, Victoria thought she would be fine with that fact and would have gone on with her life completely happy—if not for what Lady Bianca had said.

If she believed Maudeline, _that_ was horrible and painful and she ought to thank her lucky stars that Victor had not asked it of her. If she believed Lady Bianca, however, _that_ was something to look forward to! Were the women even speaking of the same act? And the book's technical descriptions could not apply to either woman's account!

It gave Victoria a headache to think of it—not to mention that she felt mortifyingly uncomfortable whenever she saw Victor, as the words _unspeakable liberties_ and _pleasantly surprised_ and _marital congress_ all swirled round in her mind at once.

She started to notice him more, too. She had always known of his presence, but she was so _aware_ of him now; of the set of his shoulders, of the single dimple in his right cheek, of the shape of his mouth. How his eyes drooped when he played the piano. How his head tilted when he drew. How nimble his hands were, with the right objects.

She thought of kissing him, sometimes, secretly; she thought of going up to him when he made her laugh, and telling him how happy she was with him, but saying it with her lips instead of her voice. She wondered if he would tilt his head, if his jaw would feel smooth, if his lips would be soft.

It embarrassed her, to think of this, but she could not help herself. Now that she knew what the book had taught her, she could not _un_-know it.

The morning they were to leave they received a letter from the Everglots and the elder van Dorts, which read that there had been some trouble with the renovations for the townhouse in the city and that rather than spend the money to fix everything, the elder van Dorts would sell the property, and the younger van Dorts could just live in the Everglot manor, since Maudeline and Finis never used it anyway.

The news was more than welcome to Victor and Victoria, who exclaimed giddily over the news the rest of the day. That evening Hannah made a special dinner to celebrate, and the pair stayed up long past their usual bedtime to talk about their good fortune.

"My life is finally turning out well!" Victor said happily, beaming into the fire in the parlour. "After two decades of sardines and loneliness and the dead, I have my share of good luck!"

Victoria laughed. "It had to come up eventually," she informed him. "For the next two decades, you'll have nothing but good luck. Real food for sardines, friends for loneliness, and…"

She had been about to say _children for the dead_, but stopped short, as the idea of children made her notice, with a strange jolt in her stomach, that he had neglected to fasten the top button of his shirt. As he went _sans_ cravat after dinner, the oversight was painfully obvious; she swallowed and tried to ignore it.

"Live people for the dead," finished Victor, his smile fading.

She knew he was likely thinking of his friends in the land of the dead, and of Emily. It was foolish, impractical, but she did not want him to think of anyone else, not with his top button unfastened. She felt peculiarly possessive.

"Did you like her?" she heard herself asking, though she had not meant to say the words.

He turned his head. "Emily, you mean?" He looked back at the fire. "Yes, I did. She was my friend."

"Oh." She bit her lip. "Oh."

He looked at her again. "I didn't _want_ to marry her," he said, sounding sharper than she had ever heard him. "It was a mistake." He paused. "We were never actually married, you know, and some of her friends told her to poison me, so the marriage would be valid. But she wouldn't do it."

"So you offered to do it yourself," said Victoria—or, rather, said the person who had taken over Victoria's voice, since Victoria would never have said aloud such thoughts.

"Only because I thought—" He broke off. "I thought you were married to Barkis, and that I'd lost you anyway. I thought I might as well keep my promise to Emily, even if it was mistakenly given."

How could he be so noble and selfless, when all she had been able to think about was how pretty Emily had been, and all she could think about now was that _maddening_ button?

"She's in a better place now," he said after a moment. "That seems like such an empty phrase, but it's true." He smiled. "You know, when she first came up out of the ground, I nearly fainted with terror on the spot."

This was news. "Really?"

"Yes, but I managed to make it to the bridge first." He chuckled. "I remember her saying, 'You may kiss the bride'…and _then_ I fainted."

Victoria could not help but smile. "What an insult to her that must have been! She wanted to kiss you and you fainted at the thought of it!"

"I never thought about that," said Victor, looking sheepish. "I never apologised later. She never seemed to take particular offence, anyway." He brightened. "And I managed to salvage my first kiss, too."

Kiss. Victoria sighed inwardly. That button was really very distressing. What would the skin beneath it feel like?

"I never thought first kisses were as important to men as they are to women," she remarked quickly, in an effort to distract herself from that alarming thought.

"Probably not to most men," Victor acknowledged, "but seeing as I nearly fainted when I was told to take your hand during the wedding rehearsal…"

"Ah, yes, of course," she said, a bit absently.

"A kiss is far more daunting," he continued, as if she had not spoken. "And I think for a man there is a lot of pressure, since most of the work is for them."

Victoria's brow crinkled. "How do you mean?"

"Well, isn't it usually the man who kisses the woman?" he asked logically. In response to her nod he said, "Can't you imagine how nerve-racking that is? What if you forget to angle your head enough and you hit her in the nose? Or what if she does not want to kiss you and turns her head at the last second, and you end up kissing her cheek or her ear? What if you are not a very good kisser, either from lack of practice or…I don't know, lack of technique…and your wife cannot stand you anymore?"

She had never considered that; but now that she had, another thought occurred to her as well, and the person who had taken over her voice blurted it out.

"Is that why we've never—"

Suddenly the real Victoria returned, wrestled her voice away from this new, outspoken person, and clamped her mouth shut mid-sentence. The damage was done, however, and much to her mortification Victor was staring at her, surprise written all over his face.

"I—I'm sorry," she said, flushing deeply. "I—I was not thinking." She swallowed. "Please forget what I said."

He only kept watching her. The startled expression had been replaced by a softer one, which made Victoria oddly nervous.

"We—we probably ought to sleep now," she stammered, rising from her seat. "It's awfully late and we have had a rather exciting day…"

She trailed off uncertainly, for he had risen as well; rather than agreeing and turning to head out of the parlour, however, he remained silent, still with that curious look on his face, and took a step closer to her.

Oh. Oh no. Against her wish, Victoria felt her the cadence of her heartbeat double in rapidity. Even worse, as he took a second step towards her, her palms began to feel alarmingly sweaty. This was just as she had feared, on that seemingly long-ago day when they had first arrived in the country. He would take her hands, and feel how disgustingly sweaty they were, and hate her for ever, and she would embarrassed beyond belief—

He took her hands, but seemed to not notice anything out of the ordinary. Indeed, he was smiling, a little hesitantly. Much to her chagrin, she felt her knees grow a bit weak, but she managed to return the smile and simply waited, hardly daring to breathe as his face came ever nearer to hers.

She could see his eyes so clearly… there were little specks of blue in them… his eyelashes were long for a man's… was she supposed to close her eyes?… one of his hands came up and cupped her cheek, so perhaps she should… her own hand came up to rest against his chest, her fingers curling to clutch at his shirt… a hundred butterflies, a thousand, seemed to be fluttering in Victoria's stomach… Victor's jaw was really very smooth…

"You may kiss the bride," he murmured.

VVVV

That night Victoria did not sleep one wink. She suspected (she hoped!) that Victor suffered from the same insomnia, for all she could do was re-live the last ten minutes before they had retired.

Their first kiss had lasted hardly a heartbeat. Victor, blushing furiously, had pulled back almost immediately, as if unable to believe his own daring, before he at last conquered his shyness and kissed her again.

At first she had been too confused and overwhelmed to do much more than stand there. Soon, however, she realised that she need not worry over lack of style or finesse, as Victor himself seemed to be improvising, and she rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him back properly, her hold on his shirt tightening. One of his hands still held hers, and she felt, to her relief, that his hand was as slippery as her own. Part of her knew that most women would be repulsed, but Victoria did not care, because he was hers and no one else's.

After a moment or two one of them tried to breathe while still in mid-kiss, and suddenly his tongue traced along her bottom lip, and she discovered, to her delight, that he tasted like apple pie and cinnamon. She let go of his hand to put her arm around his neck, because she wanted more, but before she could do so he was gone, two or three steps away from her, his entire face bright red and his expression stricken.

"I apologise!" he cried, his colour deepening. "I don't know what came over me!"

Victoria, who had thought he was over his shyness, merely looked at him, her brow crinkled with bewilderment.

"Victor—?" she began, and then comprehension dawned. His tongue. "Oh, Victor, I did not mind!" He continued to look doubtful, so she added emphatically, "Truly, Victor, I…" She felt her cheeks flare pink. Both of them would blush a year's worth of blushes before the evening ended, she was sure. "I did not dislike it."

After that he had returned to her, and they had spent the next several minutes lost in a fog. At length he had drawn away and whispered that they really ought to sleep; she had agreed, needing some time to herself to think over what had passed, and the two had hurried upstairs to their respective bedrooms.

More than once that night Victoria caught herself smiling dreamily at the ceiling or touching her lips with her fingers. They felt changed, her lips, as if they advertised Victor's kisses, and the next morning she was shy of going down to breakfast, for fear that one of the servants might see her mouth and know what had happened.

Of course that was not the case, but the smile on Victor's face at breakfast was even more noticeable, and Victoria spent most of the meal blushing at her toast and thinking of flowers, birds, books, anything but the man sitting across from her.

After the meal Victor disappeared; Victoria went to the library again, where she went to the farthest corner to hide and reassess.

For—as happy as she was, as satisfied as she as, as positively giddy as she was—she did have one looming question:

What happened next?

VVVV

Nothing, evidently.

Life carried on as before, with the addition of a kiss before bed. The kisses before bed were never quite like their first, to Victoria's disappointment; even a week later, she had yet to feel his tongue on her lips again.

Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps she ought not to have liked it so much, when she had tasted him and felt his tongue in her mouth.

She was even more aware of him now, than she had been before. Sometimes she caught him staring at her too, and flushed, because she did not know what was right or what to think.

Often she thought of asking him directly, of telling him that she wanted him to kiss her like he had that first evening, but every time she tried to think of the words, her courage failed her and she kept her mouth shut.

Until, that is, the night of the second storm.

It had rained many times during their stay in the country, but a storm had not passed since the one on their first night. A week after Victor had first kissed her, another storm arrived, one that blew howling winds through the trees and battered rain against the windowpanes. The tempest began sometime around dinner, and lasted right through their time in the parlour, through their perfunctory kiss, through the time it took to ready themselves for bed.

This time Victoria did not even attempt to sleep. She donned her robe and knocked on the door connecting their rooms. Victor opened it right away, smiling cheerfully as they went to the divan once more.

"Welcome back," he said, a little teasingly.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't appreciate the company," Victoria replied, smiling and poking at his arm. "You ought to be honoured that I have graced you with my presence."

"Yes, yes, I'm very grateful for your appearance," he said, rising and bowing; she laughed and bade him sit down with a regal wave.

For a while they were quiet, content to sit and listen to the distant rumbling of thunder and the steady downpour of rain. After a few minutes Victoria noticed that Victor was staring at her, something he had been doing increasingly as of late. She felt uncomfortable with his eyes on her so intently, so she swallowed, gathered up her nerve, and said, "Is there something you need?"

He jumped and reddened. "No! No, I…I'm sorry, I was…" He could think of no apparent excuse. "I do apologise, but I seem to have…"

"It isn't a crime to look at someone," she reassured him, though she still felt peculiar. "I only thought you might want to say something."

"No, no, not at all, but…" He looked wretched. "I must apologise, Victoria, for…for looking."

"Victor, really, there is nothing wrong with—"

"There is!" he interrupted, the colour high on his cheeks. "There is something wrong! I—It is wrong of me to look as I do—"

A thrill went through her. "As you do?" she repeated.

"Yes." He stood, moved away from her, and looked fixedly at the fire. "I—you know I have never really known a woman before."

"Nor I a man," she pointed out.

"No, but—Victoria, I must admit that I know what you were reading, that day after the ball—"

Mortification flooded her with colour, but he kept talking, and she had no time for embarrassment.

"I know you read it," he repeated, speaking too quickly, "so part of me thinks I can say this, but I don't know if I should. There are so many unwritten rules about—about everything, really—but especially about this!—and I don't know what is right—"

It relieved her, to hear this. She was glad to know that she was not alone in her confusion.

"You—you know I have never known a woman," he said again, still addressing the fire, "and it is strange that now I think of one—I look at one—at _you_—as an object of de—" He tripped over the word, but she knew what he would have said.

_Desire_.

"Oh" was all Victoria said, the sound expelling in a burst of air. "Oh."

"I am sorry," he said miserably, for what felt like the hundredth time. "I don't doubt that everyone thinks I am afraid of everything, the sort of person who would be horrified at the thought of—" He stumbled over the word again. "I was at first, and you probably remember that first night and how pale I was, but now I confess—when I look at you—"

He broke off and sat down abruptly on the edge of the divan. Victoria could say nothing.

"I apologise," he said one final time, then fell silent.

For a long, long moment she thought. She thought of how unhappy he looked, how much he must rail at himself for what he felt, when—and suddenly this came to her, as clear as the sun—there ought to be no shame in it at all. They were married, for heaven's sake! Married, despite gold diggers and the dead, despite her lack of money and his lack of class. Why did either of them care about unwritten rules or what society required? In the country, in this manor where only they and those similarly-minded to them resided, what did it matter what anyone else thought?

She thought of how much it troubled her, that he held himself away from her. She thought of how often she had lain awake at night, wishing for a better good-night kiss. She thought of how nice it would feel, to have the liberty to stare at him, or be stared at _by_ him, all day long if they wished it.

She thought of how she had never learnt what the skin beneath his top button felt like.

She thought of all this, took a deep breath, and spoke.

VVVV

It was a little frightening—she could not pretend otherwise—but the fear was tempered by the knowledge that Victor—her dear, dear Victor—would take care to treat her gently.

And gentle he was, very gentle. She was infinitely glad for the good fortune that had saved her from Lord Barkis and returned Victor to her—never in a million years would Barkis have been so loving about such an act. Even though it was uncomfortable and painful and even a little embarrassing, none of that mattered when she saw Victor's expression afterward.

(And, of course, as she later learned, Victor discovered ways to make her enjoy it just as much as he did; so much so, in fact, that after a fortnight she began to anticipate their shared nights with a quiet, almost guilty thrill of pleasure—much as Lady Bianca had hinted.)

Needless to say, Maudeline had been quite incorrect as regards to frequency.

Victor, it turned out, was rather energetic after all.

**Hopefully this wasn't too OOC or angst-y; if it was, sorry about that. You can rant at me in a review.**

**Sometimes I think people forget that while Victor is shy and sheltered and adorable, he isn't stupid. And he's a normal nineteen- or twenty-year-old with a pretty wife. :)**

**Might I mention that some of the kissing might seem inaccurate, as I have never even held a boy's hand before? (Nor do I wish to, really, since the gender as a whole tends to be rather silly at my age. Can anyone please tell me what age it is when boys become less ridiculous? Merci.)**

**Also—if you know who Richard Pevear is, you are officially my favourite person for the day. If you don't—well, let's just say I'm a bit of an egghead.**

**Merci bien for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**The first line is from Madame Plaisir's Establishment (yes, :) I am shamelessly promoting my other fic), in case anyone is wondering.**

**Merci bien to everyone who has read and reviewed so far!**

**Bonne lecture.**

_I do hope it is a girl._

The baby seemed old already. An old soul inside a young, two-hour-old body.

_I do hope it is a girl._

The eyes—that was it, Victoria decided. Big eyes, the same as Victor's, too big for the pale face that surrounded them. Eyes that seemed to know exactly what Victoria was thinking and knew how disappointed she was.

But her baby could never disappoint her! She would always love her baby, always. She would not be like Maudeline or Nell, always finding fault with and scoffing at their respective children.

_I do hope it is a girl_.

No, Victoria could never be disappointed with her child. But Victor?

_I do hope it is a girl._

What on earth would Victor say when he learned that in lieu of the sweet, quiet, gentle girl he had expressed such a fervent wish for, Victoria had given him a _boy_?

VVVV

Nothing, apparently. Not immediately, that is.

When Victor entered her bedroom a half-hour later, the baby was clearly his last priority.

"Victoria!" he burst out, the moment the door opened. Anne, who had helped during the birth, jumped and gave Victor a stern look, putting her finger to her lips.

"The baby's sleep—"

"Are you all right? You aren't in pain, are you? I tried to come in earlier but that awful woman wouldn't let me—you must be terribly tired, it's been nearly twelve hours—not that you _look_ tired, of course," he said, blushing, "because you look lovely as always, but—twelve hours!"

He seemed to run out of words—or perhaps air, as he gave a great gasp at the end of his only slightly comprehensible sentence—and stopped abruptly. Anne took her cue and sidled past Victor and out of the room.

"Are you all right?" Victor asked again, anxiously. Victoria's heart lurched to see the dark circles under his eyes and his unshaven jaw. He must have been terribly worried, and the news of the baby's sex would only add to his troubles.

Heavens, but what did one _do_ with a boy? Victoria had not the slightest clue, and she highly doubted that Victor, despite having personal experience with being a boy, had any better idea.

"Victoria? You are all right, aren't you? I couldn't hear anything from the parlour, and that dratted midwife wouldn't tell me anything, nor let me in to see you—where is she, by the way?"

"Mrs. Matterly left an hour ago," said Victoria, recalling, with some exasperation, the sincere congratulations of the older woman before her departure. She had an ominous feeling she ought to expect such sentiments often in the coming days. "And I'm perfectly well, Victor. Just a bit tired."

_A bit_ was quite an understatement. Their son had been rather stubborn about coming into the world.

He seemed to comprehend the meaning underlying her words, and gave her a look so gentle she thought, irrationally, that she may burst into tears. He was so _sweet_. He would be such a good father to a little girl, but _no_, what had she done? Given him a boy, that's what!

Instead of crying, however, she patted the space beside her on the bed. "Come sit, will you?"

He hesitated. "Are you certain? Shouldn't you rest for a while?"

"I'm _fine_, Victor, truly. Come sit."

He obeyed, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut as he did so; even after a year and a half she was not quite accustomed to such open affection.

Besides, now there was someone in the room watching them. Furthermore, it was time she gathered up her courage and introduced that someone to his father.

Her eyes flew open. "Victor? The baby's in the bassinet on the dresser."

He blinked. "Baby?" he repeated, somewhat confused. "Oh—yes, the baby!" He jumped up and went over to the dresser, where a tiny bundle lay swaddled in a basket. After blinking again he leaned closer, peering at the child. "It's quite small."

"Babies usually are," said Victoria, smiling in spite of herself.

Victor blushed. "Well, yes, I know that, I only…" He trailed off. "May I hold it—" He broke off. "Goodness, I keep referring to our baby as an it, don't I? In fact, I don't believe Mrs. Matterly ever mentioned—do we have a son or daughter?" He inspected what little of the baby he could see through all the wrapping. "I quite confess this child could be either."

"A son," said Victoria, swallowing hard. "It…we have a son."

"Oh! Splendid." Victor proceeded to pick up the child, his tongue between his teeth as he tried to hold him without jostling him awake. "Am I doing this correctly?"

"Yes, perfectly," she said, absently. The moment had passed, the fact revealed—yet Victor still smiled, still held his baby as if it were the daughter he had been wanting, still—

"Victor, what on earth are you doing?"

He started, reddening again, and pulled his nose away from his still-sleeping son's. "Ah…nothing. His nose is so _little_, Victoria! And so soft!" He went back to the bed and sat upon it, carefully placing the baby on the quilt between them. "And look at his eyebrows! They're so wispy!"

She suppressed a smile. "Yes, very wispy," she said, feeling, for the first time since the baby's birth, properly giddy. "Isn't he lovely?"

"The loveliest being on earth," said Victor, in awe. He looked up and smiled sheepishly. "Besides yourself, of course."

"Oh no," she said, beaming. "I'm quite glad to relinquish that title to him."

For a moment they both watched the baby sleep.

"What shall we name him?" Victoria asked finally.

"Name?" Victor traced the baby's small mouth. "I never even considered that." He thought for a moment. "How about Baby van Dort? Very precise and to the point."

Victoria snorted. "I doubt he will like that when he is thirty."

Victor grinned. "True…well, what do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know…" She brought the child into her lap, cuddling him close. "He looks a bit like an Edgar to me."

"Really?" Victor regarded the baby for a minute. "Hm. Edgar. You know, I rather like that. Edgar van Dort."

"Edgar Franklin," Victoria amended.

"_Franklin_?"

"He must have another name as well!" she protested, in response to his appalled expression. "My name isn't just Victoria, is it?"

"It isn't?"

She blinked. How could he not know this, after eighteen months of marriage? "Of course not, Victor. My name is Victoria Violet Everglot."

"Victoria Violet Everglot van Dort," he corrected, then frowned. "That's quite a mouthful. And I vote no to Franklin. That's a horrid name."

"All right, then," she said, a bit disgruntled. The name was not so _very_ awful. "What would _you_ call him?"

"Edgar," he said immediately, looking more stubborn than she had ever seen him. "I have only one name. If that's good enough for me, it's good enough for him."

"Oh, but…" She faltered at his expression and sighed. "Fine, then. Edgar it is."

There was a slightly awkward pause. She had the strangest feeling that they had just had, in the quiet way peculiar to them, a quarrel. Part of her thought she ought to say something, but instead she simply looked at little Edgar in her lap, who kept sleeping. She lifted him up to kiss his pale cheeks. His skin was warm.

"Actually," Victor said after a heartbeat, his voice very soft, "I think I like Edgar Franklin after all."

She met his gaze, startled, then smiled sweetly and hugged Edgar Franklin van Dort close. Victor watched for a minute, then leaned in to put his arms around both her and the baby. Her heart felt far too big for her chest, and she hid her face in the crook of Victor's neck.

Perhaps their baby was not a disappointment after all.

VVVV

"'e's awfully scrawny for a baby," said Nell, wrinkling her nose. "Bit of a disappointment, if you ask me."

Victoria sighed. For the greater part of an hour Victor's mother had been criticizing little Edgar. Thus far she had deemed his ears too big, his nose too small, his mouth too pink, his face too pale, his eyes too dark, and his entire form too thin.

"Much like 'is father," she announced, giving Victor a resigned look. "Tall and not very charming, if you ask me."

_No one is asking you anything,_ thought Victoria uncharitably. _I certainly never asked you to visit._

It was her own misfortune that the elder van Dorts and the Everglots had descended upon the country home on the same time, within minutes of each other and without any prior announcement. Victor was making a valiant attempt to make conversation with Maudeline, who kept sniffing loudly and pursing her lips at the daisies on the mantel. Finis and William stood by the window, making awkward business talk. Victoria caught bits of the conversation such as "sardines" and "pistols" and decided to tune them out.

"This parlour's a bit scruffy, if you ask me," said Nell, who had mercifully abandoned her appraisal of the baby and was looking round the room. "Where's the jewels, hm? I thought you Everglot folk had loads of that sort o' thing."

"We don't have very much anymore," said Victoria, as patiently as she could. "I have some pearls, but I would not display them in a parlour for all the world to see."

"Of course not!" called Maudeline from her seat by the fire, thoroughly ignoring Victor, who had been in the middle of a word. "Such vulgarity could hardly be excused in the residence of a true Everglot. Though I must admit," she added, staring pointedly at a drawing above the mantel, one Victor had completed the week before, "that I find it most shocking that you put an infant's sketches on show. Something one of the servant's children drew, I imagine?"

Victor flushed and Victoria gave her mother a hard look. During her time away from her family Victoria had discovered a sense of self-worth previously unrecognised, and she would not allow anyone, much less Lady Everglot, to diminish Victor's.

"Not at all shocking, Mother," she said, with faux pleasantry. "In fact, I find it rather surprising that you do not recognise the artist. But then, you have never been particularly _au fait_ with regards to art. Such a lavish habit would be difficult to sustain when one is out of funds to support it."

Maudeline said nothing. Two spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks.

"What do you have above your mantel, Mother?" Victoria asked, a bit archly. "An empty frame, I think it is? Or did you have to sell that as well?"

The colour in Lady Everglot's cheeks brightened. She opened her mouth, closed it, then rose suddenly from her chair and swept over to the sofa where Victoria sat, stooping to peer at the baby quietly snuggled in his mother's arms, watching the congregation about him with a solemn gaze.

"Such an _unnatural_ child," said Lady Everglot sharply, narrowing her eyes. "Why does he lie so still?"

"He is not given to much fussing or crying," said Victoria, wary of the swift change of subject. "A blessing for us, I should think."

"Oh, 'e's most certainly 'is father's child!" interrupted Nell loudly, waving about her fan wildly. "Victor never said a word up until 'e was near five years old. If you ask me—"

"No one is asking you anything," Maudeline snapped. Victoria blinked; for a frightening moment she thought herself akin to her mother.

"I was only trying to make polite conversation," said Nell indignantly, making to rise from her seat beside Victoria. She found she had sunk too far into the cushion, however, and had to grip Victoria's shoulder to support herself as she stood, her nails digging into the fabric of the younger woman's dress. Victoria gritted her teeth and remained as still as she could, for fear of disturbing Edgar.

"Oh, yes, I am sure," sneered Maudeline, obviously struggling with the desire to roll her eyes at the preposterous sight before her. "The same way you tried to make 'polite conversation' by informing us all of the costly French lace and Italian embroidery on your fan not ten minutes after arriving. The same way your son tried to make 'polite conversation' by talking to me of the _weather_." She straightened, looking down her nose at the much shorter Nell. "But of course, I would have expected as much from a fish merchant's wife."

Nell's entire face turned ruddy. "Now you listen 'ere—" she began, but Victoria did not hear the rest, for she made an excuse, covered Edgar's ears, and hurried off to Victor's side by the fire.

"Hullo," said Victor gloomily, watching his mother and Lady Everglot's dialogue steadily escalate. "Here, you can sit where your mother was."

Victoria took the armchair and uncovered their son's ears. "I didn't want him to hear anything untoward," she explained, in response to Victor's quizzical expression.

"Oh. Quite right. Only I think they'll start shouting in a moment, so he'll hear it anyway." He held out his hands. "Give him to me, will you? I'm in need of comfort."

She suppressed a smile as she handed over Edgar, who took the change of host in stride. "So you comfort me during thunderstorms, and he will comfort you when our parents visit. Who will comfort him in his time of need?"

"I doubt he will ever need comfort," said Victor, cradling his son fondly. "He seems full of fortitude."

"He must be," she said, throwing their mothers a glance. She could hear "fish merchant's wife" and "if you ask me" being said with increasing intensity and volume. "But I suppose I can comfort little Frank, if he is ever in need of it."

"Frank?" Victor echoed, dismayed.

"Frank is a fine name," Victoria said firmly. "Edgar is a bit too formal, don't you think?"

"No," said Victor flatly. He looked down at Edgar-Frank. "What do you think? Would you rather be called Edgar or…_Frank_?"

Edgar-Frank merely blinked.

"He's so _quiet_," said Victoria, momentarily forgetting the issue. "That worries me a little. He never makes a sound."

"Never," agreed Victor. He frowned. "Actually—I don't think that's an exaggeration. He has never made a sound. Ever. Not even when he's crying. Don't you recall yesterday, when it took us nearly ten minutes to even notice that he needed something?"

He looked up and met Victoria's gaze. She looked stricken.

"Victor, you don't think—"

"Victor!"

William, who had given up on talking sardines to Finis, came over to the fire. He clapped Victor on the back several times.

"I didn't think you had it in you, son!" he said, beaming broadly under his moustache as Victor, winded, tried to gather his wits. "I was afraid you might end up with a daughter, given your character, but everything worked out in the end! Nothing to interfere with the show, eh? And of course you deserve some of the credit, ma'am," he said, nodding at Victoria. "Very dutiful of you, to give us a grandson."

Victoria could not think of what to say. "Ah…thank you…"

She exchanged a glance with Victor, whose lips quivered suspiciously. William, who apparently had nothing more to say, made a sound that was partly a cough and partly a grumble and went off to observe the shouting match between his wife and Lady Everglot.

Finis, meanwhile, came over to take William's place. His stunted height put him eyelevel with the baby, whom Victor still cradled.

"He's quite a sturdy-looking child," said Finis, a little stiltedly. "Quite…" He swallowed and appeared to be struggling to remember something. "Quite charming."

Victoria exchanged another glance with Victor, who looked thoroughly perplexed at Lord Everglot's unwonted attempt at affability.

"Er—yes, he is," said Victor finally, at a loss. "Do you—would you like to hold him?"

Finis visibly blanched. "No!" he said, much too quickly. "No, I think…I think he would not like to be away from his parents," he said, a little less sharply, smiling unpleasantly at Edgar-Frank, who, to his credit, merely stared back steadily.

"That was odd," said Victor, as Finis returned to his post by the window.

Victoria, however, thought she might know the font of her father's sudden friendliness. "Mother likely gave him a script," she said, exasperatedly. "Often if we had to visit a cousin or an aunt who had had a child, Mother would have Father memorize compliments and pleasantries."

"That explains why he couldn't remember the word for 'charming,'" said Victor, laughing a little. He looked down at Edgar-Frank, whose eyes had begun to droop closed. "What do you say, Edgar? Are you charming?"

"_Frank_ is exceedingly charming," Victoria replied.

Victor narrowed his eyes, though his mouth twitched. "Edgar."

"Frank."

"Edgar!"

"Frank!"

"Victoria!"

Victoria turned to see that her mother had won her argument with Nell, who sat on the sofa again beside an only slightly-sympathetic William, and was coming over to the fireplace.

"Victoria, come into the hall with me. I must speak with you."

Without waiting for a reply Maudeline swept out of the parlour; Victoria, giving Victor and Edgar-Frank a helpless look, followed.

"I must congratulate you, daughter," said Lady Everglot, once the parlour door had closed and she had checked the hallway for idling servants. "I am very pleased."

The younger woman blinked. "Mother?"

"You have fulfilled your duty as a wife!" Maudeline said, her expression as close to agreeable as Victoria had ever seen it. "Now you may be rid of your husband! Though I suspect that he does not trouble you overmuch anyway," she added.

An uncomfortable pause ensued.

"That is all," said Lady Everglot abruptly. "We may return now."

As they re-entered the parlour Victoria wondered if she ought to disabuse her mother of the incorrect, albeit understandable, notion that Victor did not "trouble her overmuch anyway." Just as she opened her mouth, however, a rather disturbing image of Finis and Maudeline kissing entered her mind, and she closed her lips immediately.

Some people, she decided, should continue under certain delusions.

VVVV

"Thank heavens that it's over!"

After seeing their parents to the door, Victor went up to his room, where Victoria, much to the horror of both their mothers, was nursing Edgar-Frank.

"I feel so relieved," he said, collapsing onto his bed beside Victoria. "I imagine this is what a soldier feels like upon return from battle."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," said Victoria, though she smiled. "I must agree that I'm a little more at ease, though. Did you see the look on my mother's face when I said I give Frank my own milk?"

"Edgar," corrected Victor automatically.

Victoria ignored him. "Did you tell Harry to let Emily back inside?"

"Yes; she jumped on my shoes for a minute, licked my face until it dripped, then went straight to the kitchen, likely to make faces at Hannah until she gives her a treat."

Victoria, who had shifted Edgar-Frank so she could kiss Victor's cheek, froze an inch from his cheek. "Your face doesn't look wet."

"I wiped it off before I came upstairs," he said, leaning so her kiss found his lips instead of his cheek. "Mm."

"_Victor_. Not in front of the child!"

"Oh, fine…" He moved back, frowned at Edgar-Frank, then looked at Victoria. "Shall we put him to bed, then?" he asked hopefully. "It's already seven o'clock. That's awfully late for a boy of his age to be awake. And look, his eyes are closed."

So they were, Victoria realised. She re-fastened her dress and cradled Edgar-Frank close to her face, kissing his cheeks. "My sweet little baby," she murmured. "My little baby Frank."

"Yes, yes, we all know that," said Victor impatiently, though his expression softened as he watched. "Now put _Edgar_ to bed!"

"Frank!"

"Edgar!"

"Frank!"

**No offence to anyone named Franklin, by the way. **

**You know what's an odd picture? Victor unshaven, that's what. Is anyone else having trouble picturing that?**


	5. Chapter 5

**This isn't Victoria's POV, but I hope no one minds much. Also, not my best writing, but I think it's tolerable.**

**Also—I have a Fictionpress now, with the same pen name, so if you don't have anything else to do, I would appreciate some readers over there, too! And merci bien to everyone who has been reading this, especially those who have reviewed, and even more especially those who have done so more than once. I appreciate you all very much. :)**

**Bonne lecture.**

Snow swirled down from the grey sky as the little boy, dressed snugly in two sweaters, a coat, three pairs of wool socks, sturdy trousers, and a hat too large for his head but too small for his ears, padded quietly up the hill behind his house. As he walked the wind blew in his face and snuck in through every gap in his clothes that it could find; the gust bit at his fingers, and he rubbed them together, wishing he had remembered his mittens.

He reached a large oak on the top of the hill. Beneath it was a tiny rectangular stone, which he bent to brush clean of snow and dirt. The boy sniffed, looked round to see if anyone was watching, then wiped at his eyes and sat down in the snow by the stone, his knees drawn to his chest and his cold hands clasped around his legs.

For a while he simply sat there, feeling his tears freeze on his cheeks and feeling quite lonely. His mother and father had done their best to make him cheerful today—Mama had even let him eat cherry pie for breakfast—but nothing could replace the friend who used to lick the sweet remains off his face once he was finished.

He sniffed again and hid his face in his knees. His first Christmas without Emily. It was quite depressing, to have Christmas without one's best friend. Who would give him his holiday nuzzle? Or bark once for each present under the tree? Or eat his broccoli when Mama was not looking?

(Well, Papa usually did the latter for him now. But it was not quite the same.)

He did not have any friends, either. The children who lived near him thought he was strange, and did not have the patience to try to talk to him. Without Emily he did not have any other friends. Just Papa and Mama and the servants, but they were all grown-up and could not play games with him.

He felt so _alone_.

"'ullo, there!"

He lifted his head and blinked, immediately dazzled. There, standing before him, was an angel. A bright, beaming, rosy-cheeked angel, about his age and wearing a dress that matched her cheeks and a big polka-dotted bow in her curly red hair.

For a moment he could not do much more than stare, because she was an awfully pretty angel—almost as pretty as Mama—but then the angel talked and he regained some of his senses.

"I just moved 'ere last week!" she said, still smiling broadly. Her bright blue eyes twinkled. "I didn't know if there was any other people my age, but I'm sure glad there is! Christmas is awful lonely if you don't got any other people to share it with! Mum's too busy makin' plum cake for Lady Vivian to pay me any mind, but that's fine by me, 'cause if Mum en't watchin' I can run around in the snow all I like! She says I en't s'posed to, 'cause Lady Vivian spent all this money on my new dress, but I can't just sit around an' look pretty, can I? I mean, I en't very good at lookin' pretty."

He thought she did an excellent job of looking pretty. Her grammar was horrid, though, and she talked more like Harry and Anne than Mama and Papa.

"You don't talk much," said the girl, peering at him as if he were an exhibit in a zoo. For a moment he amused himself with the thought: _Edgarenia Franklinus van Dorticus._ _A rare species found only in the English countryside. Subsists on a diet of cherry pie and fairy cakes. Predator to books. Prey to grandmothers._

"Well?" the girl demanded. "En't you gonna say somethin'?"

He heaved an inward sigh—this always happened with new people, and while he did not blame anyone for their confusion, it was tiring to always have to explain himself—pointed to his mouth, and shook his head.

The girl's eyes fairly popped out of her head.

"Why not?" she asked. "'cause you don't want to?"

He opened his mouth, mimicked speaking, then shrugged.

"You can't talk!" the girl said excitedly. "That's amazin'! I never met anyone that couldn't talk!"

Neither had he, but he didn't feel like trying to mime that and his pencil and notepad were in the pocket of his second sweater.

To his dismay the girl plopped down in the snow beside him. "How d'you tell people what you want, then? I mean, I guess you could act it out, but what if it's somethin' long to tell?"

Edgar mentally sighed again, unbuttoned his coat, and pulled out his pencil and notepad.

"Oh!" The girl leaned in. When she was this close he could count every freckle on her nose. "Can we 'ave a conversation?"

He nodded and flipped to a clean page.

"Hmm…well, I just moved 'ere, like I said. My mum's the new cook for Lady Vivian and we live in the next 'ouse from 'ere."

_That's quite far_, he wrote.

After scrutinizing his message—she appeared to be sounding out the words as she read them—the girl sat back, looking pleased. "Oh, it en't such a walk if you're used to it," she said modestly. "An' I'm pretty big for my age. I'm eight, by the way. 'ow old are you?"

_Eight and a half._

"Oh, I'm just eight. I mean, I turned eight last month. So I s'pose I'm eight and one-twelfth." She peered at him again. "Say, were you cryin'? 'Cause there's water stuck to your cheeks."

He blushed and rubbed at his face.

"No, it's all right," she said, looking concerned. "What's wrong? Don't you like me?"

He hesitated, then wrote very quickly, _My dog died three weeks ago and this is my first Christmas without her._

"Oh. I'm sorry," she said soberly. She glanced at the stone and seemed to understand. "What was her name?"

_Emily. She was my best friend._

"Hey!" said the girl, beaming again suddenly. Edgar felt a jolt of irritation; it was really very rude of her to smile at such a moment. "Hey, you know what?"

He waited. He had a feeling he knew what she would say, but he let her have her moment anyway.

"_My_ name's Emily, too!" she cried, looking positively ecstatic. "So I guess _I'll_ be your best friend now! What d'you say?"

Edgar, who took no offence to the colloquial expression no matter how inappropriate it was when said to him, had to take a moment to think. She was pretty, and nice, but she was awfully loud and a little too friendly.

…Which, come to think of it, described Emily the dog just as well.

So maybe this girl could be his friend after all.

He nodded and she jumped up, still grinning. She had dimples in both cheeks, he noticed, which flashed constantly.

"Perfect! I'll be a real good friend, you'll see! An' I en't got any other friends, either, so _you_ can be _my_ best friend, too!"

He nodded again.

"Perfect!" she said again. "My full name's Emily Stroud. What's yours?"

_Edgar Franklin van Dort._

The instant she sounded out his name she blanched, her smile vanishing.

"You're a van Dort?" she checked, terribly pale.

What was wrong? Why did she look so scared? _Yes. Why?_

"Mum'll be so mad!" she said, looking stricken. "She told me not to talk to any of the families or I'll get her out of another job! I'm awful sorry, sir, I didn't know you was important! I just thought you was one of the downstairs lot!"

He felt ridiculous being called _sir_ when he was only half a year older than her, but before he could write that down she began to back away.

"I really am sorry," she said again, her eyes wide. "I won't bother you no more, I promise."

She turned and headed down the hill—then was promptly hit by a snowball.

"Hey! What—"

He stood, frowning, then beckoned her back up to the tree. She wavered, then obeyed, though reluctantly.

"I have to go," she mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

He did not like her to be so quiet. Only a minute ago he would have appreciated her silence; now, however, he realised that silence suited her about as well as anger suited Papa. He touched her shoulder, then showed her what he had written as she had been going down the hill.

_You don't need to be sorry. I would be very happy if you would be my friend. I don't have any. And in my house we don't care about upstairs and downstairs. Everyone is the same._

It took her a while to read it—one of the first activities they must do, he thought, was teach her to read faster—but once she had, she smiled so widely he thought her face might break in two.

"Oh, I like that," she said, pointing to the last sentence. "Mum always says we en't as good as the families we work for, but I don't see why. I mean, I love Mum, but it en't my fault I was born to 'er and not the queen, right?"

He nodded.

"I like you," she said suddenly. "Can I come 'ere tomorrow, the same time?"

_Yes,_ he wrote, _and if you want you can stay for lunch today, too._

"Lunch?" she repeated, surprised. "Really?"

_We are having roast beef and cherry pie from this morning._

"You 'ad cherry pie for _breakfast_?" Emily asked incredulously, her eyes round as saucers. "Your Mum must be real nice to let you do that! But I don't think I can stay," she added. "I should prob'ly go an' spend time with Mum. Christmas an' all that, you know. But I'll come tomorrow for sure."

_All right. I'll see you tomorrow._

"Tomorrow!" she agreed, shaking his free hand vigorously and beaming. "I sure am glad I met you, Ed! You don't mind Ed, do you?"

He did mind, actually, but she was shaking the hand that held his notepad steady and she would not stop.

"Good!" She finally let go of his hand; it took all his might to keep from toppling over at the sudden loss of pressure. "G'bye, new best friend! See you tomorrow!"

He waved and she ran down the hill, singing to herself as she hurried away. He watched for a while, until she was too far for him to see, then looked down at her little footprints in the snow and smiled.

As loud and annoying and cheerful as she was, tomorrow, he decided, could not come quickly enough.

**To any of you who were alone this holiday, may you all find your Emilys and Edgars, no matter how loud or annoying or cheerful they are!**


	6. Chapter 6

**This might be too fluffy in parts. Actually, no, because I don't think there is such a thing as too fluffy. **

**Bonne lecture.**

"_No_, Victor."

"Why not?" he protested, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "It wouldn't take very long, I promise! You're a remarkably quick learner—remember how soon you learnt to play _Fur Elise_?"

"Yes, I do, but—"

"So this can't be much more difficult! It is the same process, truly; learn the steps, practise a little, and there you have it!"

"There is a great deal of difference between fingers on an instrument and feet on a floor," said Victoria firmly. "Besides, if you are dancing with me, who would play the air? And where would we practise?"

"I could hum the air!" His eyes brightened in his enthusiasm. "As for where, we could do it right in here, in the parlour, if we moved aside the chairs and the table!"

"Oh, but Victor…" She cast about for another excuse. "Victor, I am already five months along. I am not exactly graceful."

He gave her a look. "Victoria, you're hardly showing at all. _And_ you balanced four books on your head while coming down the staircase this morning to prove to Hannah how straight your spine is."

Victoria blushed. "But—well—I am _used_ to that—Mother made me do that every day for a month to improve my posture—"

"And if we practise the waltz, then you'll be used to that as well," he pointed out.

She sighed. "I don't understand why this is so important."

"I've never danced with you," he said simply. "Of course, I've only ever danced with two people, so I suppose it isn't so terrible—but still. I would like to have danced with my own wife at least once."

"Who were the two people?"

"My dancing-master and…" He sighed. "And Mother. Don't laugh."

It was too late; he had to wait for her giggles to subside before he could continue.

"Will you?"

She sighed again. It was already evening and she was quite tired. But he looked so hopeful that she could not refuse him, and before she knew what she was about, she nodded.

"Ha!" He rose at once and began to pull his chair over to the wall. "Just give me a moment to move the furniture, and we'll begin."

"Right _now_?" she said, alarmed.

"Of course! When else?"

"Oh…tomorrow, perhaps, or…" _Never._

"Never?" he finished, giving her another look.

She reddened. "You know me far too well." She rose as well and started to push her chair to the opposite wall. Victor rushed over.

"No, no, no!" he cried worriedly. "No, you just sit down—er—" The purpose of her pushing the chair occurred to him, and he looked round. "Actually, just stand by the fireplace."

"Victor, I am perfectly capable of pushing a chair," she said, a little exasperated. "Do calm down."

"Well—you alone may be capable, but you and our baby are not. So go stand by the fireplace."

She obeyed, more amused than irritated. Within a few minutes he had all the furniture moved, and he returned to her side, bowing deeply.

"Why, m'lady," he said, taking her hand and kissing the back of it, "I did not realise that such lovely women would be attending this ball."

She swallowed a giggle and curtsied. "Why yes, my good sir. What other sort could attend a ball? Of course, I in turn did not know there would be such gallant gentlemen."

To his credit he remained straight-faced. "Might I know the name of such a charming young lady?"

"Miss Everglot, sir."

"Your Christian name, m'lady."

Victoria put a hand to her cheek. "Such familiarity, sir! I hardly know you! What _would_ your mother say?"

"Reel 'er in, Victor," he said promptly, in a remarkably close imitation of Nell's squawk.

For a moment she came dangerously close to breaking character; she recovered quickly and said, "Such greedy mamas we have this season, do we not?"

"Terribly," he said. "But enough of mamas, I think. Shall we dance, Miss Everglot?"

"I confess I do not know how, sir."

"Do not know how!" he exclaimed, with mock horror. "What a travesty! A young lady of the _ton_, not know how to dance? My dear Miss Everglot, we must remedy this situation at once!"

He redoubled his clasp on her hand and drew her towards the centre of the room. "Do you hear the waltz, Miss Everglot?"

Victoria tilted her head. "I am afraid I cannot quite make it out, sir."

He hummed a little. "There?"

"Yes, sir, it is most lively." She smiled up at him. "Shall you teach me to dance to it?"

"It would be quite rude of me not to," he answered, and for the next few moments they were Victor and Victoria again as he instructed her on where to place her feet and how to follow his lead. She was, as he had mentioned, a quick learner, and soon could match him as he hummed the air.

"Good," he said, then returned to his game as they danced around the parlour to imaginary music. "My dear Miss Everglot, you are far too modest in saying you cannot dance!"

"I believe it is you who are in excess," she said, a little slowly as she counted off the steps in her head. "Excess praise, that is."

"Miss Everglot!" he cried, outraged. "Are you accusing me of _exaggeration_?"

"Perhaps just a little."

"I shall have you know, Miss Everglot, that I have never danced with such an elegant young lady in my—ow!"

She blushed as he winced and shook out his foot. "I'm so sorry! I told you I would be awful!"

"This is the first time you've stepped on my foot in a half-hour, Victoria," he said pointedly. "When I danced with Mother she stepped on my foot about a half-dozen times in as many minutes. Besides, I hardly felt it."

"That's why you stopped in mid-sentence, yes?"

He eyed her suspiciously. "You are acquiring a rather sharp sense of humour."

"I haven't _acquired_ it. I always had it. I just never gave it a voice until I married you."

"So I alone must suffer the cruelties from your lips!"

"_Only_ the cruelties?" she asked, a little mischievously.

There was a short pause, in which Victor demonstrated that he suffered much more than cruelties from her lips.

"I am most appalled at your conduct, sir," said Victoria after a moment or two, when they resumed their waltz. "To take such liberties with a woman you have only just met!"

"My dear Miss Everglot, such a loss of morals could only be expected of a person confronted with your radiant personage."

She could not resist a laugh at that. "I might add, sir, that I am already married."

"No!"

"Yes, indeed, though my husband is most odious. He is decades my senior, you know, and hardly pays me any attention at all."

"Such a waste," he said sadly, holding her close. She very nearly stepped on his foot again and narrowly avoided it by gently pulling at his sleeve. "Such youth and beauty, wasted on an ungrateful old man." He halted by the window and cupped her face. "Shall you be rid of him, my dear?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"We may run away together," he said, struck by the romanticism of the idea. "To Italy, perhaps, or France! No one would find us there!"

Oh, this was too much. She would burst into laughter at any moment; but she saw a familiar softness in his gaze, and felt her cheeks grow warm instead.

"How far is France, sir?"

"Not at all far," he said, almost whispering. "Upstairs and to the left, in fact."

_Good heavens_. "I am not the only one acquiring a sharp sense of humour," she said unsteadily. "Besides, sir, I thought you were teaching me to dance."

"I am," he said, taking her hand again and gently pulling her towards the parlour door. "And I still am. There are several kinds of dances, you know."

"_Victor_!" 


End file.
